


Legacy: The Hound of Hell

by StarLinedSoul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Gen, Season/Series 08, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarLinedSoul/pseuds/StarLinedSoul
Summary: Dean & Sam Winchester have lived their lives surrounded by the dark forces of the world, pushed and pulled and forced to bend in their mission to rid the world of evil and save innocent lives. Learning that they are the heirs to an extinct organization dedicated to chronicling the supernatural world was just another day at the office. In reviving the Men of Letters, however, they find they are not as alone as originally thought. Joined by Erica, a fellow legacy seeking her own answers within the walls of the bunker, the brothers dive headfirst into a world of nigh-impossible trials and ancient magic when given the chance to close the gates of Hell and forever remove demons from the face of the Earth. But as they learn that Erica’s ties to their quest run deeper than they could possibly imagine, Sam & Dean must consider the long-reaching consequences of this endeavor and whether they are willing to pay the cost. Perhaps, in the end, a legacy of blood and death is all that awaits the Winchesters.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Original Female Character(s), Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Intruder Alert

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome to my newest project! This is actually a revisited old project, but the story has changed so much since then that it certainly feels new. I've loved Supernatural for years and was inspired to come back and rework this story after the announcement that the show would be ending with season fifteen. What a crazy and amazing ride it has been!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all will enjoy my contribution to the fandom! I'm hoping to be able to update this story monthly for the time being, but will warn you in advance that those plans could be completely derailed depending on how things evolve with my school and work loads. This story is also cross-posted on FF.net if anyone would prefer to read it there.
> 
> If you are interested, you can also follow my Tumblr page at username star-linedsoul to see updates and insight into the story, though I warn you that there is the certainty of spoilers should you choose to do so.
> 
> I also extend my deepest gratitude to InfinitySpring and The Tinglenator on FF.net for their amazing work as betas to make this story the best it could be!
> 
> Enjoy and please drop a review and let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Lauren

**Legacy**

**Part I: The Hound of Hell**

**Chapter One: Intruder Alert**

"There it is, Sammy…home sweet home."

A shiny, black Impala slowed to a stop in front of a towering building of stone and brick. No normal person would think to call an aging, Depression-era power plant home. No normal person knew the importance of the rundown building settled on the banks of White Rock Creek, north of the small town of Lebanon, KS. But the Winchesters were not normal people—though practice had made them capable pretenders.

From his place in the passenger seat, Sam Winchester noticed the small grin crinkling the corners of his brother's eyes. "Is that what we're calling this place now? _Home_?"

"I dunno, man," Dean returned with a shrug, ducking his head as if self-conscious of his word choice. He killed the car's rumbling engine. "It's just nice to have something that's ours, you know? Beats some janky hotel room every night."

Sam wished they had elected to stay in a hotel room rather than drive straight from Pennsylvania back to the disguised supernatural treasure trove that now served as their base of operations. He was getting too old to spend twenty-plus hours on the road. Especially after getting knocked around by secret Nazi necromancers. He wouldn't tell his brother that, though. It was rare for Dean to be enthusiastic about anything anymore. So, when he had suggested—with poorly-disguised excitement—that they drive on instead of stopping, Sam had agreed. If his brother wanted to think of this place as home, he wouldn't stop him. With his spine cracking as he climbed out of the car, he bent and twisted every which way, loosening the tension his body had collected over the course of the drive. He wouldn't mind when the "new home" sentiment wore off enough for Dean to allow layovers, though.

"Having a central base could definitely be a good thing." The pair circled the vehicle to grab their bags from the trunk. Lifting his face to the late afternoon sun, Sam stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, warding off the February chill while Dean fumbled with the keys. "It might make it easier to respond to cases, for one. Did you know we're only a couple miles off the geographic center of the country? The contiguous part, anyway. Equal distance from the east coast and the west."

"Yeah, because the geography is the selling point of the place." Dean chuckled, slinging his well-worn duffel bag over one shoulder and slamming the trunk shut once Sam had claimed his own bag. As they approached the small flight of concrete steps leading to the bunker's heavy iron door, he continued, "I just think it's awesome having our own place! We haven't had anything permanent like this since…well, ever. It's—"

"Awesome," Sam finished with a grin. "So you said. Are you gonna unlock the door or leave us standing out here in the cold all day? Because I'd really like to get some rest."

"Alright, alright," Dean pulled a gold box from his jacket pocket, dismantling it with already-practiced movements to reveal the bunker key. "We wouldn't want the princess to miss any beauty sleep, now would we?"

Sam rolled his eyes, pressing forward as Dean pulled the door open and waved him in with an exaggerated flourish. He descended the narrow metal stairs inside to reach the bunker's second door and waited for his brother to finish locking the first behind them, before snatching the key out of the air as Dean tossed it down. Pushing this door open, he handed the key back to his brother and stepped over the threshold onto the bunker's main landing, only to pull up short.

His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the brightly lit control room and the library visible beyond. "Did we kill the power when we left?"

"Pretty sure, yeah," Dean confirmed from behind his left shoulder. "Why? _Oh._ "

Wasting no time, the eldest Winchester stepped around Sam, dropping his duffel bag on the landing and drawing his pistol from inside his jacket. Slow, deliberate steps carried him down the metal stairs in silence as sharp eyes skimmed familiar surroundings. Matching Sam's low, cautious tone, he asked, "No one can get in here without a key, right?"

Sam nodded as he drew his own weapon, then remembered that Dean couldn't see him as he followed his brother downstairs. He thought back to his disastrous visit with a former member of the Men of Letters and the valuable information he had imparted a few weeks before. "That's what Larry said. This place is supposed to be warded; nothing gets in unless we let it."

"And we're the only ones with a key."

It wasn't a question as Dean switched off his pistol's safety, head on a swivel as he paced through the control room, searching for anything out of place. Sam mirrored his brother as they entered the library. Each took a side of the room and paced between the shelves, checking each nook for intruders or clues.

As Sam approached the middle reading nook on the right side of the library, he found his first confirmation of an intruder in their new base; stacks of books and papers littered a small study table, which Sam knew neither of the brothers had used yet. Dean hadn't been much interested in the library archives at all, preferring to explore the bunker's many other features while Sam had been doing his own reading on the larger center tables where he could spread multiple books for easy reference. Even if he had used the more private area provided by the reading bays, he had spent all his time researching the Men of Letters and their various allies around the world. As he skimmed the gathered titles and a few passages that had been bookmarked—a pencil in one, a receipt for ten bucks worth of fuel in another, a shamefully dog-eared page in the last—he noticed they all pertained to demons and summoning rituals.

"Someone's been here."

"You sure? I thought maybe this was yours," Dean called. Sam found him standing at the center table, a black leather jacket hooked on one finger that was obviously too small for either of the brothers to claim.

"You're hilarious," Sam said dryly, abandoning the study area to join his brother.

"I know." Dean broke into a self-satisfied grin before draping the jacket over the back of one of the chairs. Returning to business, his lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced around the library. A series of hand gestures directed Sam to search the right wing while Dean took the left.

Tightening his grip on his pistol, Sam nodded his agreement, slipping past his brother back toward the main entrance.

"Sammy?" The low note of warning called his attention to where his brother still lingered at the head of the library's center table. "If they can slip past the wards, there's no telling who or what they are."

Though it was unnecessary, Sam understood the unspoken message there. _Be careful._ He nodded once again before padding back through the control room and angling right into the maze of hallways and storerooms beyond. Pressing his back against the wall and sliding forward on silent feet, he kept his gun at a ready level, angled toward the ceiling. He may not have known what he was hunting, but he would be ready for them, regardless. He considered who or what could have gotten into the bunker in the first place. It'd been confirmed that the Men of Letters had gone extinct, along with most of their allies. No one should have known the place existed, much less been able to penetrate the warding! The implications made his skin crawl.

* * *

Dean checked the infirmary and lab first, finding them untouched. He then followed his nose to the kitchen. There was no one inside, though he found more clues that narrowed down his mental list of who or what had invaded his new home: dishes were neatly arranged on the drying rack mounted above the sink—but he knew he had put everything away before he and Sam left, since he couldn't be sure how long they would be gone. A saucepan full of still-hot soapy water sat alone in the sink.

Shifting his attention elsewhere, Dean eyed the kitchen's stainless-steel island and the ingredients neatly organized there: freshly sliced okra, packages of shrimp and crabmeat, and a variety of seasonings and sauces from bay leaves to Tabasco. Whatever was in their bunker needed to eat. He crossed demons and angels both off his mental list with some relief. If it needed to eat, it was mortal—which meant he could kill it. Crossing to the stove top where a pot simmered over low heat, he lifted the lid and inhaled deeply. Dean's stomach growled as the authentic mix of spices and sauce teased his senses in all the right ways. Maybe he would make whoever it was finish cooking the gumbo first.

With his search not finished, Dean reluctantly stepped away from the stove and its tantalizing contents. "I'll be back for you."

It felt wrong stalking the halls of his own home as he moved from the kitchen and into the labyrinthine corridors of the dormitory wing, but the eldest Winchester was thorough. It was a relief each time he searched a room, one by one, and found nothing disturbed.

Approaching the last unchecked room in this wing, his pulse quickened. _Not my room_ , he prayed inwardly. _Not when I just got my own space._ Every muscle in his body was coiled to spring as he reached for the door handle and gave it a quick turn. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, his gun at eye level while pivoting into the room. He swept every corner with a wary eye. A breath of relief whooshed from his lungs when he found it as empty as the rest. Suddenly exhausted, he sank down on the edge of his bed. Massaging his fingers into his temples, the hunter took a moment to refocus and decide what his next logical step should be before retrieving the cell from his jacket pocket.

_Food in the kitchen but nothing in the dorms. Heading to the garage level._

Dean waited for a text from Sam acknowledging his report before climbing back to his feet. He shook his head at how ridiculous it was to be playing hide and go seek in his own home—without knowing who he was looking for—and proceeded to securely latch the door on his way out of the bedroom. No one was violating his space more than they already had. Not if he had anything to say about it.

The hunter crossed the corridors on silent feet, every sense tuned to pick up the slightest sign of the bunker's mystery guests. He knew he had finally struck gold as he entered the hall leading to the garage. Amid the funky rhythm and melodic vocals of what his ears immediately recognized as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the metallic clang of tools clattering together sang through the air. He knew that sound well. Pressing his back against the wall flanking the stairs into the garage, he texted Sam to let him know he had found something.

Dean ascended the first few stairs, stopping when he was high enough to see over the concrete walls of the motorcycle bays flanking the stairwell. Scanning the open garage, he found all of the cars and bikes still in their places, with the sounds coming from the corner workspace at the rear. He ducked back down out of sight as he caught movement between the shelves separating the work area from the rest of the garage. _Bingo._

Smart enough to know better than to engage an unknown party without backup, the hunter waited not-so-patiently until his phone vibrated with Sam's confirmation that he was on his way. Only then did Dean climb the stairs and enter the garage. Prepared to duck out of sight should someone else appear, he stayed close to the vehicle bays, his gun low but ready as quick strides carried him toward the corner where a single figure was silhouetted behind the shelves.

Several choice curses punctuating Anthony Kiedis' melancholic crooning through "Californication" had Dean categorizing this particular intruder as female, and he absently wondered if this was the owner of the jacket he and Sam had found in the library. He was given time to survey the scene, going unnoticed by the target thanks to the loud music masking his footfalls while he approached the gap opening the workspace to the rest of the garage. The woman stood at the near end of a worktable on which rested a black and chrome motorcycle. Her back was to the hunter as she leaned one shoulder against the bike's rear tire to hold it in place and struggled to install its axle with her free hand.

"Come on, girl," she growled between the dull thuds of a rubber mallet knocking the axle into place. "Stop being such a bitch!"

As if the bike heard her, the shaft found its seat. Dropping the rubber mallet to the table, the woman rested one hand on the reinstalled tire, running her other hand through choppy black hair as she muttered, "Finally!"

Deciding to press his advantage while the woman was still unaware that she was no longer alone, Dean reached over and shut off the small stereo on the shelf next to him. The hunter raised his pistol to the ready position as the music abruptly cut to silence. "Nice bike."

With a loud gasp, the woman whirled around, swiping the mallet from the table once again and adopting a defensive stance in a single, fluid motion. Spotting the gun leveled at her chest, however, all color drained from her face. Narrowed eyes widened in surprise and a crinkle formed along her brows, her knuckles white from gripping the mallet in her hand.

"Who are you?"

"Funny. I was planning on asking you the same thing." Dean gestured to the woman's hands with the barrel of his gun. "Drop that mallet and kick it under the table. Keep your hands where I can see them."

The hunter thought the woman was going to try something stupid. Like a cornered animal seconds away from bolting, her entire body was drawn and tense. Dean wondered if she might try to charge him since he had left her nowhere to run. Though he had her unquestionably outmatched in size, fear made people do crazy things. It was lucky that she proved to be a bit more sensible. Her muscles remained taut with tension and her eyes were glued to him. However, she crouched and placed the mallet on the floor, then raised her hands in a gesture of surrender as she rose, kicking the mallet away.

Though it was the result he had wanted, something didn't sit right with Dean. He couldn't quite explain what it was. Maybe it was that this was too easy. Maybe it was that the intruder seemed to be trying too hard to appear normal. This woman before him had somehow managed to infiltrate their bunker—which was supposed to be _secret_ and _hidden_ —and yet she was tinkering in the garage instead of robbing the place of its virtually priceless collection. Nothing about her appearance suggested she was anything other than average. Surely no older than thirty, she wore a plain black T-shirt, faded form-fitting jeans, and scuffed biker boots, with no logos or embellishments visible that might be traced back to a store. No charms or amulets decorated her wrists or hung around her neck, nor were any weapons visible that might suggest she was a hunter. And yet there was something unsettling about her. About how quickly she had picked up the mallet and prepared to defend herself only to disarm just as fast. About how she looked as submissive as possible, wide-eyed and with her hands in the air, and yet her entire body was tense as if ready for a fight.

Remaining on alert, Dean stepped closer to the woman only for her to back away until she hit the far wall. "What do you want?"

The hunter was sure it was meant to be a demand, but her voice was too shaky for it to have the desired effect. "Hey, you're the one in my home without permission, sweetheart. I'll handle the questions." Before she could protest further, Dean closed the distance between them, grabbing her shoulder and pushing her to turn around. "Hands on the wall. Keep 'em where I can see 'em."

Though she complied easily enough, the hunter kept his pistol ready in one hand in case she got any funny ideas. Starting at her torso, he skimmed his free hand over the woman's lean frame. He brushed down one denim-clad leg, confiscating the switchblade tucked into her boot. On the way up the other leg, he swiped the leather wallet from her back pocket.

"Hey!" she protested, whirling back around and reaching for the wallet. "Give that back!"

Dean dodged easily. "Don't worry. You'll get it back so long as you don't do anything stupid." He could tell she didn't like his answer as her hands tightened into fists. Green eyes fixed him with a scorching glare, which he elected to ignore as he flipped open the wallet to check for ID. "Got any friends with you?"

"It's just me." Dean glanced up at the woman's wooden tone, but he found she wasn't looking at him, fixed on a spot behind his left shoulder. Then, faintly, "Oh…there's _two_ of you."

Following her stare, Dean found his brother surveying the scene, eyes alert and pistol lowered toward the floor. About damn time. "Hiya, Sammy. So glad you could join us."

The younger Winchester answered with a curt nod, glancing between his brother and the woman he'd cornered. "What's going on?"

"I'm just getting acquainted with our new friend here." Dean made a show of holding up the ID he had pulled from their guest's wallet, keeping his tone casual. "Meet Erica Jackson from Seminole, Oklahoma. She's a…let's see, carry the one, thirteen minus seven…twenty-six year old Gemini and"—he raised an eyebrow, looking at the woman's choppy black locks—"a blonde?"

She shifted her weight to one leg, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm sorry, is dying hair a crime these days?"

Dean definitely didn't like her snippy tone. "No, but breaking and entering is. So give me one good reason why you're in my garage and I'll think about letting you walk outta here."

"I-I didn't know anyone lived here." Erica had the decency to at least pretend to be remorseful, tucking her hair behind one ear and scuffing one toe against the concrete as she glanced between the brothers. "The place was empty when I found it."

"And you just decided to move in?" Sam inferred, still uncertain as he hovered near the worktable.

"No, of course not!" Erica returned. But she faltered, pulling her lower lip between her teeth. "Well, kind of, I guess…" She huffed. "It's a long story."

"Well, we're all ears."

Sam countered his brother's gruff tone with the gentler and more quiet suggestion, "Why don't you start by telling us how you got in here?"

"I used the door. How else?" Erica arched a single brow with a face that said Sam had asked the most idiotic question possible. As the brothers donned matching skeptical looks, she put her hands on her hips. "Wait, you're serious? What, you think I slipped down the chimney like Santa Claus?"

"Don't get smart with us," Dean warned before gesturing between himself and his brother with the hand still holding the woman's wallet. "We know for a fact you need a key to get in here, and we're the only people that have one."

"A key like this?"

Erica moved to sidestep the elder Winchester, but both brothers lifted their guns once again with matching speed, Dean pivoting to keep the woman point-blank in his sights. Raising her hands in submission, Erica pressed herself against the wall once again, glancing between the two pistols and the duo wielding them. "Whoa! Alright, take it easy. Check in my bike's left saddlebag. Front pocket."

Dean glanced at his brother and nodded. While Sam cautiously closed the gap between himself and their unwelcome guest's motorcycle, lowering his weapon but keeping it at the ready, the elder Winchester guarded their intruder. He noticed with no small amount of suspicion that, while wary eyes focused on the gun barrel still leveled at her chest, Erica lacked true fear. A cautious expression complimented his own stony glare, but her stance was solid and unyielding despite the surrender suggested by her raised hands.

Dean waited to hear the metallic zip that would indicate Sam's opening the pocket Erica had indicated. He had not anticipated, however, the dread-inducing sound of Sam's breath catching in his throat. His mind immediately leapt through an array of worst-case scenarios from hex bags to cursed objects.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean asked, not liking the silence that followed but reluctant to divert his attention from their intruder. _If he didn't hurry up and answer—_

"It-it's a key. _Our_ key," Sam finally breathed.

"What?" It was enough for him to turn his head to see his brother standing beside the motorcycle, his brows deeply furrowed as he studied the familiar gold box clutched in one hand. "Are you sure?"

Sam held it up so his brother could see for himself. Scuffed and worn, it appeared older than the one Dean could still feel in his pocket. More concerning, it was unmistakably identical down to the six-pointed star engraved into the surface. Slow and meticulous, Sam dismantled the box to reveal it, too, housed an iron key engraved with the Aquarian star. As his brother looked at their guest with a newly burning curiosity, Dean recognized the expression of a man with a thousand questions jostling for position as to which should be asked first.

Sam's voice was almost reverent as he asked, "Where did you get this?"

"It was my dad's. He left it for me before…" Erica trailed off, seeming uncomfortable. There was no way to be sure whether it was Sam's penetrating scrutiny or the fact Dean still had her lined up like a target that made her so uneasy. Either way, she cocked her weight to one hip and huffed in exasperation. "Look, keep the key if you want. Just let me go. I'll leave and I won't bother you again. I swear I didn't know anyone lived here or else I wouldn't have stayed."

"Alright, take it easy," Sam said. Releasing the hammer on the pistol hanging slack at his side, he made a show of holding it up so Erica could see it had been disarmed, returning it to his inside jacket pocket before raising his hands in a placating gesture. "No one is going to hurt you."

Erica looked pointedly at Dean and the pistol still levelled at her chest. "Forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

"Dean, maybe put that away?" Sam suggested with a sigh, looking to his brother. "She _is_ cooperating. And she obviously didn't break in."

The eldest Winchester tensed, still certain he should not be letting his guard down, key or no key. He knew, however, that Sam wouldn't accept it without him being able to explain why. Seeing no other options, he reluctantly engaged his pistol's safety and lowered it in time with Erica dropping her hands. He wasn't going to be relaxing yet, however, and he noticed Erica wasn't either. Her body language still suggested she was on high alert, and sharp eyes glanced down at the gun to clearly notice he hadn't put the weapon away.

"So, your dad," Sam began, calling Erica's attention. "Was he one of the Men of Letters?"

"The what?"

"The Men of Letters," Dean echoed. "That's what this place is…it was their base of operations." He waved an arm to emphasize the room around them, but it clearly had no effect as Erica simply offered him a blank stare. "None of this ringing any bells?"

"Nope." She popped her 'p' and shook her head. "My dad left when I was a kid. He never mentioned this place."

"How did you find it, then?" Sam asked.

"I was cleaning out my mom's basement and found a box of my dad's things. There was a package with my name on it"—Erica gestured at the box Sam still cradled in his hands- "and inside was that key and a letter with coordinates leading me here." She crossed her arms over her chest protectively, her face going oddly blank. "I'd hoped maybe I would find him here—or at least a clue about what happened to him.

"But I see now that was a mistake," she added, refusing to meet either of the brothers' eyes as she ruffled her already messy hair with one hand. "I'll put my bike back together and get outta your way."

"Yeah, sounds like a great idea," Dean agreed as he handed Erica's wallet back to her, equally as eager for her to leave as she seemed to be. Anything to ease the anxious feeling coiled in his gut. He noticed she still held out one hand, despite having already returned her wallet to her back pocket. "What?"

"My knife," she noted plainly, quirking one eyebrow.

"Oh, I don't think so, honey." Dean patted the pocket of his jeans where he had tucked the black-handled switchblade he'd confiscated. "I'll be holding onto that until you're ready to leave. A man can never be too careful."

Erica looked like she wanted to protest but thought better of it, puffing her cheeks out in a huff. "Fine. But don't think you're keeping it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dean returned as Erica checked him in the shoulder, sweeping past him and back to the worktable and her partially dismantled bike. He decided to let it slide. Anything to get her out of his bunker faster. "Need any help with this?"

"No, thanks," Erica declined a little too quickly. "I manage just fine on my own."

"Suit yourself." Dean shrugged. As long as it meant she'd be gone soon. Besides, there was a service staircase at one corner of the garage that would offer a vantage point to keep an eye on the stranger. And she'd never even need to know he was there so long as she was being honest about fixing her bike and leaving. "C'mon, Sammy. Let's leave her to it."

"Hold on a minute, Dean." Sam set the box he'd pulled from Erica's bag on the table near her elbow. "Your dad must have been connected to this place somehow if he had this."

Erica didn't look up from where she was already running a new chain through her bike sprockets, so she didn't see the puppy eyes Sam was warming up. _This isn't going to be good,_ Dean thought, already dreading whatever his brother was about to say.

"So?" Erica's tone was dismissive, which gave Dean hope. Maybe Sam would be discouraged enough to give up on whatever he was scheming. "I already told you, I don't know anything about your little book club."

"Then why were you researching demons in the library?" Sam inquired.

"Who says I was?"

"Well, I know neither me nor Dean pulled out that stack of books I found, so unless you wanna mend your claim that you're the only other one here…" Letting the implication hang in the air, Sam leaned back against the table and tucked his hands in his pockets in a clear sign he wasn't going anywhere. "Look, I'm just saying maybe we can help you find whatever it is you're looking for."

"I don't remember asking for anyone's help."

 _Give it up, Sam._ Erica clearly wasn't biting, not even bothering to look up at the man still hovering at her shoulder as she worked on securing the new chain to her bike. And Dean was fine with that. Perfectly fine. _Ecstatic,_ actually. Especially since Sam was deliberately ignoring his glare that clearly told him to cease and desist running that oversized mouth.

"Fine. It's your choice." Sam shrugged. "But I've been going through the Men of Letters' files. They kept detailed records on everyone involved in their organization at every level. If they worked with your father—which, obviously, they did in one way or another—it's documented here."

"Why?"

Finished with installing her bike's new chain, Erica finally turned to face Sam directly. Though still guarded from the arms crossed over her chest to the legs crossed at the ankles as she leaned her hip against the worktable, the question meant that she was listening rather than simply reacting. Dean knew his brother well enough to know the shift would keep whatever Sam was scheming afloat. He cursed under his breath.

"Why what?"

"You and your brother were perfectly fine putting me at gunpoint two minutes ago," Erica reminded Sam. "Why offer to help me now?"

 _Because he's an idiot,_ Dean thought. It probably helped that she was also easy on the eyes—in the keys-cars-and-slashes-tires-after-a-break-up kind of way. Sam's track record with women had always been questionable at best.

"Two minutes ago, we thought we were the only people in the world who could possibly know about this place," Sam returned, his tone apologetic. "Dean and I are new to this Men of Letters thing ourselves. We understood the whole organization to be extinct."

 _Try completely annihilated._ An involuntary shudder coursed down Dean's spine as he recalled the savagery with which the demon Abaddon had executed the last two Men of Letters. Larry Ganem, who had already been blinded by the demon's previous attacks, had entrusted Sam with the secrets of the bunker before finally falling prey to Abaddon's bloodthirst. Henry Winchester, their grandfather who had been displaced from his own time by half a century in his attempt to escape Abaddon and protect the order, had sacrificed his own life to give the brothers the opportunity to bring the demon's path of destruction to a permanent end. This left Sam and himself as the only ones who knew of the society and their mission to observe and chronicle the supernatural world. _Or so they had thought._

"Until me," Erica inferred, tilting her head as her critical expression softened.

"Until you," Sam confirmed. "Now I'm thinking there could be more to this than I thought." Fully-powered puppy eyes launched a brutal assault. "Maybe we could figure it out together?"

Erica didn't immediately turn Sam down, biting her bottom lip as she considered the suggestion. _Nope. No way. Incomplete pass. No points awarded._

Stepping forward and offering a loud chuckle that was false even to his own ears, Dean clapped Sam firmly on the shoulder. "You'll have to forgive my brother. He gets over-excited about research projects. I've been trying to tell him he needs to get out more, but he doesn't listen. Sammy, could I talk to you in private for a minute?"

Without waiting for a response, Dean steered Sam out of the workspace and into the main garage, moving until he was sure they were out of earshot. He glanced back toward their guest to find her returning her attention to her bike with a shake of her head, uninterested in their conversation.

"What the hell are you thinking, Sam?" Dean demanded, keeping his voice low in case she was more subtle than he thought.

"What?"

"We don't know anything about this girl!" The eldest Winchester brandished an arm back toward the corner. "You can't invite her to stick around!"

"Why not?" Sam returned with a shrug. "What do you want to do? Shove her out the door and tell her never to come back?" He scoffed as his brother seemed to actively consider doing just that. "She has a key to the bunker, Dean. She's already tied up in this!"

"She doesn't know the first thing about this place. If she keeps digging, she'll wind up getting herself killed or worse, and you know it!"

"So we help her." Sam clearly thought it was the most logical conclusion, his face a stony broadcast that his mind would not be changed. "Like it or not, she is proof we need to find out more about the Men of Letters. There could be others who survived Abaddon's attacks!"—he raised an eyebrow as he pointedly looked at his brother—"Could you really feel secure here not knowing if there are others like Erica running around with keys to our supposedly secret base? If there's anyone else who knows about this place, we need to find out. And she is as good a place to start as any."

Sam noticed Dean's defenses wavering, lips pursing slightly and head tilting to one side as he seriously considered their options. The younger Winchester pressed his advantage a bit further, softening his voice and arranging his most convincing face. "Besides…a missing father? Coordinates to a last-known location with no instructions as to what to do once she got there? Doesn't that sound familiar?"

"What? Dad?" Dean accented his correct conclusion with a scoff. "This ain't the same, Sammy. Dad was missing for a few weeks…her Pops has probably been gone more than a decade!"

"So there's no chance of finding him alive," Sam conceded with a nod. "But we _could_ help her gain some closure." He read the hesitation still lingering in his brother's face. "It's the right thing to do and you know it. And if we gain something from it, too...well, that's even better!"

"Why are you pushing so hard for this, Sam?"

"Why are _you_ so against it?"

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but no words would come. Snapping his mouth closed, he dwelled on the unsettled feeling broiling deep in his gut. He honestly couldn't explain why he felt so uncomfortable with this. There was only this visceral feeling of _wrong_ that he couldn't give a distinct voice, centered around the young woman still tinkering in their garage. Despite what Sam assumed, it was more than simply inviting someone new into their circle. It was the instinctive notion that there were things Erica wasn't saying. _Important_ things.

Though, a more logical side of his brain which often sounded like Sam suggested that this was more reason to allow the woman to stay. Her reaction to his brother's questions about her chosen research suggested Erica knew more about their world than she was letting on. The brothers would be able to figure out over time if she were lying or keeping secrets. That was their job, after all. But there were massive risks in dealing with this kind of unknown. She could be dangerous, weaving some elaborate scheme to gain their trust and betray them. The list of enemies—both monster and human—the Winchesters had gained over time wasn't exactly short. If they managed to determine her motives before she was capable of making her move, however, they could potentially head off the danger before it reared its ugly head.

"Fine, she stays. That doesn't mean I like it," Dean declared, keeping his voice stern. He poked his brother in the chest to emphasize his words. "But none of this _we_ stuff. This is _your_ idea and _your_ research project, which makes the tourist _your_ responsibility."

"Fine," Sam grumbled.

"Fine."

The matter was settled. Dean would let Sam have his little research project, and he would keep a close watch for anything suspicious. Before he could change his mind, the eldest Winchester marched back to the workspace where Erica had her full weight thrown against a torque wrench. She was quick to notice their return, standing straight and scanning them with cautious eyes.

"Alright, you're in luck," he began. "My geek brother is gonna help you track down your dad."

Erica didn't seem surprised by this information, glancing between the brothers as Sam flashed a small smile. "When do we start?"

"Don't get too excited. We have some conditions," Dean warned, crossing his arms over his chest as he decided he might as well press the advantage while he had it. "About that grub I spotted in the kitchen…"


	2. Paranoid

**Legacy  
Part I: The Hound of Hell  
Chapter Two: Paranoid**

Mornings at the bunker had become a liminal time for the Winchesters. Carved deep into the Kansas bedrock, the bunker was devoid of any windows or natural lighting to indicate the time of day, and neither Sam nor Dean were in the habit of setting an alarm when they weren’t working a case. Over the years, their circadian rhythms had been well-trained to allow only short bouts of sleep at a time, but the security of the warded bunker soon lulled them into the occasional habit of oversleeping. Sometimes Dean would wake to find Sam had already taken his morning run, eaten breakfast, and settled into researching a new topic before he could even get his own eyes open. Other days Dean would spend an eternity in solitude before Sam would finally wander into the kitchen searching for coffee, hair sticking up in all directions and eyes half-closed. The younger Winchester apologized each time it happened, as if he were inconveniencing his brother by taking advantage of the extra rest. Dean, however, accepted it as another advantage of their new base of operations. This was what it felt like to be _safe_. This was what it felt like to be _home_.

Today Dean awoke to his internal clock insisting it was later in the morning than he was used to, but his weary body suggested he take a few more hours to rest. He sat up and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes to shake the dregs of sleepiness away. A glance at his watch revealed it was barely eight o’clock. Normally, this would suggest he was unusually well-rested. Now it only served to remind him of how restless his night had been. He’d finally dozed off in the early hours of the morning after constant tossing and turning, unable to shut his brain off and go to sleep. The reason for this was a few doors down the hall in room fourteen—unless she was already awake.

Dean had been less than delighted upon realizing the bunker’s newest guest had decided to take up residence in the room directly around the corner from his own. He’d been tempted to tell Erica to buzz off and pick one of the bunker’s other numerous bedrooms to sleep in, but then had thought it might not be such a bad idea for her to be close enough to keep under watch. He hadn’t anticipated how the encroachment would mess with his own sense of security. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind constructed images of her stalking the halls to murder him and his brother in their beds or else conjuring up legions of evil to do her bidding while they slept. He had even found himself out of bed at one point, creeping to her door—just checking on her, he told himself—only to find she had locked herself inside. That had done little to reassure him.

As he stepped out of his room, the comforting aroma of fresh coffee teased his senses. He hoped that meant Sam was awake. Dean pursued the smell and its promise of black gold to the kitchen but found the room empty and the coffee pot half-full. Confirming that the bunker’s other two inhabitants had been there, a pair of matched mugs with rings of coffee settled at the bottom had been abandoned on the counter next to a hastily scribbled note. Recognizing his brother’s chicken-scratch, Dean decoded it with practiced eyes while pouring his own cup of coffee.

_Dean,  
Went for a run with Erica.  
Be back soon.  
-Sam_

“I see the friendship train is still chugging right along,” Dean grumbled to no one, shaking his head. “That’s just fantastic.”

Was he being unfair? _Probably_ , he admitted as he crumpled the note and made his way to the fridge to see what he could scrape together for breakfast. He didn’t care, though.

For the first time since Dean was four years old, he and Sam had a place where they felt secure, a place where they could rest and unwind from a hunt without looking over their shoulders for the next Big Bad trying to make their lives miserable. And now Erica had come along and ruined it. This was supposed to be their space, and yet now Dean was seeing traces of her everywhere. He couldn’t even escape her in the fridge! Instead of the takeout and beer forming the cornerstone of the Winchester diet, it was full of groceries she had bought sometime in the two days she claimed to have been at the bunker prior to their arrival - not that being able to cook a hot, fresh, _delicious_ meal wasn’t awesome…but it wasn’t the point!

It was even worse because the intruder was being so damn _civil_ about the whole situation.

Erica had immediately agreed to share her dinner with the brothers as if they hadn’t just interrogated her at gunpoint. While finishing the work on her motorcycle, she’d fished for more information about them and how they had come to call the bunker home. If their short, dodgy answers and the fact that she clearly wasn’t being left alone had bothered her, she was very good at hiding it. Once the bike was reassembled and running to her satisfaction, she’d scrubbed the grease and oil from her hands and headed for the kitchen.

Belting an apron about her waist, Erica had bustled around as if unaffected by the two men watching her every move from the dinner table. Dean had decided maybe the woman was being willfully oblivious as she asked if either of them had any allergies and if there were any vegetables they didn’t want in a salad. It’d been enough to win Sam over either way.

Tiring of the tension as she put the finishing touches on dinner, the younger Winchester had begun building a rapport with their guest. He started with an innocent offer to help chop vegetables. A breath Dean hadn’t realized he’d been holding rushed from his chest as Erica passed the knife and cutting board over to Sam. He hadn’t liked the effortlessness of her vegetable chopping. No one outside of a five-star restaurant kitchen should be so comfortable and quick with that heavy of a blade.

Sam, however, showed no signs of the same trepidation as he drew Erica into conversation. As skillfully as always, his little brother bobbed and weaved through the discussion in a way that had the woman revealing pieces of herself without even noticing she had done so. People always got loose-tongued around Sammy. It was a gift.

They learned her father disappeared when she was eight, leaving her to be raised by only her mother. Her relationship with said mother had been strained for years before her mother’s death a few months prior. The death led to finding her father’s letter and the bunker key while settling her mother’s affairs. Before, Erica had been in the military, recruited into an Army intelligence division.

That explained a lot in and of itself. _Blend in with a crowd. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Suspect everyone._ They were all part of the job description, and those habits were hard to shake. The brothers would know. John Winchester had learned similar routines during his own time in the military, and later found they were also useful in the hunting world. So many of Sam and Dean’s daily rituals were remnants of habits their father had drilled into them during their childhood. Erica might not be a hunter in the supernatural sense of the word, but the instincts were there.

From a superficial viewpoint, Erica was average, with the same story spouted by thousands across the country. She had grown up in small-town America. She had joined the military straight out of high school because she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life and nothing better to do with her time. _And maybe also to piss off my mom_ , Erica had admitted with a thin smile that was a mix of mischief and bitterness. Her mother hadn’t approved of the decision—no homecoming parties after deployments or _Proud Army Mom_ bumper stickers for her. Erica didn’t seem worse off for it: independent and capable, though a bit cynical even for Dean’s tastes. And she was a _damn_ good cook. In fact—

Dean pulled the bowl of gumbo remaining from dinner out of the fridge, along with the side of rice. The salad was left for Sam. Why waste energy cooking when there were perfectly good leftovers available? He then reminded himself they needed to invest in a microwave for the place as he set the gumbo to warm on the stove. Stirring occasionally to keep his intended breakfast from sticking to the bottom of the pot, his thoughts returned to the current conundrum.

On the surface, Erica gave all the right answers and each of her actions made perfect sense. But Dean’s instincts were still screaming a warning. He didn’t like the way she watched everything, seeming to miss nothing even though she didn’t say anything. He didn’t like the way she studied him with narrowed eyes when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. He didn’t like the edge to her smile or the bite to her words, suggesting a double-meaning he couldn’t decode. Trouble simmered beneath the surface of her carefully constructed façade. He was certain.

Sam, however, made it clear that he thought Dean was being paranoid, having said as much when Dean had voiced his concerns after dinner. Erica was _nice_. She had answered their questions. She had fed them. Now she had gotten Sam alone, out for a run through the woods where anything could go wrong.

Dean wondered if maybe his brother was having his own tactics turned against him. If so, Erica was _good_. But he trusted Sam to be better. His brother was capable of handling practically anything, and even if she managed to catch him off-guard, the younger Winchester had Erica more than outmatched in size. Still, that didn’t mean Dean liked the idea of the two being alone with him having no idea of where to start looking if they didn’t return in a timely manner. Almost losing his appetite at the thought of what could be happening outside the bunker, he settled in to wait.

The time spent pondering the myriad of ways Erica could kill Sam during their run while making it look like an accident was mercifully short.

Halfway through his bowl of gumbo, Dean heard the metallic scrape of the main door opening. He listened with bated breath, relieved by heavy thuds which could only be his brother’s huge feet descending the stairs into the control room. Two voices cut through the quiet of the bunker. One he easily recognized as his brother’s exasperated tone, while the other was an unfamiliar timbre he was beginning to associate with Erica. Were they _arguing_? Dean considered investigating, but they instead found their way to him.

“I won fair and square!” his brother was saying as he swept into the kitchen, not even noticing Dean sitting at the table. Sam made a beeline for the fridge, his mouth split into a wide grin despite his argumentative tone and his heaving breaths. Dean was of the opinion no one should look so amused when they were also sweaty and gross unless removal of clothes was involved.

“You gave yourself a head start!” Erica had followed his brother, though she paused at the top of the steps. As flushed and out of breath as Sam, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the threshold. “That’s cheating!”

“Or maybe you aren’t as fast as you think you are,” Sam suggested with a smirk as he pushed the fridge closed with his hip and tossed one water bottle across the kitchen while keeping another for himself.

“Your legs are _twice_ as long as mine!” Erica cried as she snatched the bottle out of the air and stepped down into the kitchen. “And I still almost caught you!”

Sam was too busy guzzling his water to reply. Erica followed his lead, but not before Dean noticed her narrowed eyes glance between Sam and the bottle he had given her as if judging whether its contents were safe, so fast he might have imagined it. As if they were the intruders not to be trusted rather than the other way around. Dean didn’t like that. He didn’t like her baggy grey hoodie and jogging pants that coordinated with his brother’s like they were some kind of matched set. He didn’t like the way she mirrored his brother’s stance as the pair inhaled their water like some wannabe camels.

Sam didn’t reenter the conversation until his bottle had run dry. “You know what they say about ‘almost’”—he smirked as Erica quirked a single eyebrow—"It’s for horseshoes, hand grenades, and _sore losers_.”

The snarky hunter was rewarded by Erica’s bottle cap zinging through the air. It would have pegged him squarely in the forehead if not for a last-second deflection. Sam was grinning, and the mouth of the stern ex-soldier he was aggravating twisted at the corners as if she were fighting a smile of her own. 

His already grumpy mood fully soured, Dean decided that was enough. He cleared his throat to draw attention to himself and point out that the sweaty pair was not alone. For good measure, he wrinkled his nose as he added, “You two look disgusting.”

“Good morning to you, too, Dean,” Sam greeted warmly. He then cocked his head to the side, confusion furrowing his brows. “Are you…eating gumbo for breakfast?”

“Yeah, so? Got a problem with it?”

“Nope.” Sam lifted his hands in surrender as he recognized his brother’s morning grouchiness. He glanced at the room’s third party as if hoping for help. “I’m sure Erica is happy you liked it so much. Maybe she’d even give you the recipe?”

“I would, if not for the fact that it came from a lady who considered herself bona fide Louisiana Cajun,” Erica pointed out, her expression thoughtful. “She told me it was a secret family recipe and she’d hex me if I shared it with anyone. At the time, I thought she was kidding. After finding this place? I’m not so sure.”

Sam crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the kitchen island, curiosity softening his features. “If it’s supposed to be secret, how did you convince her to give you the recipe in the first place?”

Erica shrugged. “I was dating her daughter at the time.”

Wracking coughs echoed through the kitchen as Dean choked on his gumbo. Several seconds of undignified hacking, thumping on his chest with his fist, and gulps of hot coffee later, the hunter found the ex-soldier watching him, a single, finely shaped brow arched high and lips pressed in a thin line.

“Is there a problem?”

“Nope, no problem,” Dean averted his eyes to his food. “The gumbo is a little spicy, is all.”

“Right.” Erica let the word drag out long enough to make it clear she didn’t believe the older Winchester and caught Sam’s eye from where he still leaned against the counter, silently chuckling at his brother’s expense. “I’m calling dibs on the shower. Meet you back in the library after?”

“Absolutely.”

Watching Erica leave the kitchen, Dean quickly vacated his seat once she had crossed the threshold and approached the same doorway on silent feet.

“You know, when I saw your note I was planning to let you know you were working way too hard to get laid,” Dean kept his tone light and teasing, just in case their unwelcome guest was eavesdropping out-of-sight. He stuck his head into the hall and looked both ways but found it empty. “But learning she bats for the other team…man, I can’t decide if I should rib you even more or feel sorry for you.”

“Not everything has to be about sex, you know?” Sam returned from somewhere by the sinks, annoyance painting his tone. “People _can_ do things just to be nice.”

With a noncommittal grunt, Dean turned to reclaim his seat at the table, certain Erica was gone for the moment and he’d be able to talk to Sam in peace. His brother joined him, taking the seat across from him and setting down a steaming bowl of—

“What happened to gumbo not being a breakfast food?”

“It’s not,” Sam insisted even as he shoveled a spoonful down his gullet. “But you already reheated it and it’ll go bad.” He hummed in satisfaction as he chewed. “Wow. I think it’s better today than it was last night!”

“ _Right?!_ ” Dean agreed, brandishing his spoon between the half-eaten contents of his own bowl and Sam’s full one. “With food like this, the meat proteins break down overnight and get absorbed by everything else. It makes the flavors bolder when you reheat the leftovers.”

“Dude, why do you know that?” Sam asked around another mouthful of gumbo.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but then snapped it closed just as fast. He didn’t want to tell Sam that sometimes he’d turn the TV on at night when he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to explain that all that was on during those hours was infomercials, porn, or cooking shows, or that he’d found the cooking shows soothing after Purgatory-induced nightmares had him awake and searching for the closest weapon. He definitely didn’t want to admit that he had found himself thinking he was capable of imitating some of the methods, limited by the fact that they rarely had access to a real kitchen. Though he hadn’t worked up the courage to put it to good use yet, he’d been eyeing the bunker’s fully equipped kitchen since the day they had moved in. But they weren’t kids anymore. Sam wouldn’t be satisfied with burnt Spaghetti-O’s or mediocre mac-and-cheese and Dean wasn’t willing to subject himself to the scrutiny that would come with cooking a full meal just yet. Takeout had suited them fine for this long.

“I dunno. I read it somewhere,” he said instead, shrugging off his brother’s curiosity as he decided redirection was the best option. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low despite having confirmed Erica wasn’t lurking nearby. “So. Notice anything suspicious about our new roommate while you were out training for the Olympics?”

“Other than she runs like a freaking gazelle?”

“Like a supernatural, monster-y kind of gazelle?” Dean sounded almost hopeful.

Sam chuckled. “More like the kind of gazelle that has been running every day for practically her whole life. I’m telling you, man, we ran five miles and she was hardly winded. Then she wanted to race back to the bunker!”

“Is that when you cheated?”

“I didn’t cheat,” Sam insisted, the corners of his mouth turning down as his shoulders rose. “I _may_ have creatively manipulated the situation in my favor.”

“Meaning?”

“She told me I could call the start and…I happened to already be running before I said ‘go.’”

“So you did cheat!” A loud bark of a laugh heralded the return of Dean’s teasing tone. “Sammy Winchester was scared to lose a footrace to a girl. What are you, twelve?”

“Screw you.”

Sam’s tone lacked genuine venom and only made Dean’s smug grin widen. An almost-comfortable silence settled between the brothers as they each focused on their breakfast. Dean, however, was quick to notice that Sam seemed preoccupied, glancing off into space with a pensive look on his face as he chewed his food.

“Something on your mind, little brother?” he finally asked, but received no answer. “Sam?”

“Huh?” Jolted back from wherever his mind had wandered, Sam met Dean’s concerned expression with one of slight confusion. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

“Well, don’t hurt yourself, man.”

Sam scoffed. “I’m fine. It’s just—do you have Dad’s journal in your room?”

“Yeah, why? What are you thinking?”

“Well, I—” Sam hesitated, but decided to plow forward with a huff. “Alright, this is just a theory, but get this.”

Even without Sam’s trademark phrase, Dean could tell something big was rolling around that freakish brain as his brother leaned forward in his seat, pushing his breakfast to the side with something that wasn’t quite agitation.

“You remember yesterday Erica mentioned that her father had left her a letter along with the bunker key?” Sam didn’t wait for Dean’s confirmation. “Well, I had the chance to ask her about it during our run.”

“And?” Dean pressed. This _was_ juicy.

“From what she says, it sounds like a written version of the ‘truth is out there’ speech. Demons and ghosts are real; monsters will kill and eat you…the whole nine yards. But it’s more than that. He claimed a war was brewing between humans and demons. Supposedly, that’s why he disappeared.”

“A war?” Dean parroted, pausing with his spoon an inch from his mouth. “When? With who?”

“Erica doesn’t know. The letter wasn’t specific, I guess. She was convinced her father had gone crazy until she found this place.” Sam leaned back and waved one hand in surrender, eyebrows rising in a clear invitation for Dean to speculate along with him. “But if he vanished when she was eight, that would have been the mid-nineties. And who was the major player then?”

Dean locked eyes with his brother as he rode the train of thought to the same station. “Azazel.” The word was acid in his mouth. “You think maybe he was tracking the same patterns as Dad?”

“It fits, doesn’t it? I thought Dad might have known him.”

“Dad wasn’t exactly a member of the hunters’ social club,” Dean noted, already rising from his seat. “But if they were after the same thing…it’s possible.”

Tossing his bowl into the sink on his way out of the kitchen, he marched to his room, eyes instinctually landing on a familiar, leather-bound journal as soon as he stepped through the door. He scooped it off the nightstand, pausing as the weight of Sam’s theory settled in his gut.

Were they walking into another one of their dad’s secrets? Dean hadn’t had to think about their vendetta with the Yellow-Eyed Demon in years. It felt wrong to dredge it up again now.

With a heavy sigh, he tucked the journal under his arm and began the return trek to the kitchen. If Sam was right, they needed to know.

“You get a name?” Dean asked as soon as he rejoined Sam, sliding into his seat.

“Joseph. Joseph Jackson,” Sam recited, leaning forward as Dean began flipping worn, nearly-memorized pages.

“That doesn’t ring a bell.” Dean scanned the ‘Contacts’ section of the book that had held almost every answer to any question he’d ever asked about all things spooky. “The list jumps from Harvelle to Jones. No Jackson.”

“What about the journal entries?”

Hearing the disappointment in Sam’s voice, Dean flipped through the pages despite his own intuition telling him that he wouldn’t find anything. He started in 1990 for good measure, skimming every page up to the year 2000. Nothing. No Jacksons other than a routine salt-and-burn in Jackson, Mississippi.

“Alright, that doesn’t necessarily kill the theory,” Sam noted as Dean shared his results. “Like you said, Dad mostly kept out of the hunting circles. Erica’s dad could have, too.”

“Maybe,” Dean conceded, though lacking sincerity. “But even if that is the case, where do the Men of Letters come into play?” He recalled the anti-hunter sentiments expressed by their late grandfather. “They wouldn’t have handed that key over to just anyone—much less a run-of-the-mill hunter.”

“They would have if he didn’t start out as a hunter.” Sam abandoned his seat, long legs carrying him from the kitchen and into the library, where he immediately started pulling books off a shelf.

“Talk to me, little brother.” Dean recognized the signs of a research frenzy as he followed behind the younger Winchester. He picked up one of the books Sam had set on a table: _Initiation Roster 1951-1955_. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“I’m thinking Erica is a legacy, like us,” Sam declared, glancing between the books he held in each hand and returning one to the shelf while adding the other to his growing pile. “Maybe her father was one of the Men of Letters. Maybe after Abaddon wiped most of them out, he went on the offensive and tried to hunt her down. He wouldn’t have found her, of course, since she got zapped here. But maybe he found Azazel’s tracks instead.”

“I dunno, Sam. Would Erica’s father even be old enough to be a Man of Letters?” Dean considered the birthdate he remembered from Erica’s ID. “Even if he was already forty when she was born, he would’ve been just a kid when Abaddon attacked.”

“Maybe her grandfather, then. Maybe he taught her father and her father would have taught her if he hadn’t disappeared.”

“That sounds like a lot of maybes.”

“But it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Sam insisted. He was already flipping through one of the books, sparing a passing glance for his brother. “If I can find a Jackson in here, it’s evidence that Erica’s family was part of the organization.”

“Is it? In that case, we’d better give Janet and the crew a call. Maybe even Sam L. He seems like the type to wanna gank some monsters between movies.” 

Dean’s sarcasm didn’t curb Sam’s hunger for knowledge as he kept racing through pages of the ledger in front of him.

“So let’s say you’re right and someone in Erica’s family—father, grandfather, great-uncle Charlie, whoever—is one of the Men of Letters and survives Abaddon’s attack,” Dean tried instead, waving his hands through the air to accentuate each point as he followed his brother’s speculation. “They build a new life…wife and kid, white picket fence, the whole nine yards. But they want revenge for Abaddon gutting all their buddies. So they adopt the hunting life and go on the offensive, dragging the rest of the family along with them? And now Erica has been left the key because the rest of them didn’t survive?”

Sam shrugged, not looking up from his search. “Maybe.”

Dean decided he hated that word. “But _why_?”

Frustration boiled in his gut as he considered Erica’s story. If her family thought themselves the last of the Men of Letters, why decide to hunt demons? Why not lay low? Teach their children and grandchildren what they knew, recruit some worthy hunters, and rebuild the organization from the ground up? He knew how easy it was to get caught up in revenge, but the Men of Letters were supposed to be people of knowledge and intellect. The librarians of the supernatural world. Charging into a war with demons seemed too reckless. As did leaving behind an ignorant child and expecting them to join the fight once they were grown. As if this world wasn’t already dangerous enough for those who actually knew what they were doing….

Unless Erica’s father was the most idiotic Man of Letters in history, something didn’t add up. The whole story didn’t sit right with Dean. There were too many holes—too much speculation. Too many of those damn _maybes_ Sam liked so much. Not to mention the timing. Why now? So soon after they had just found the bunker for themselves? When they were still doing their own investigations into what this organization had meant to the supernatural world? It was all too convenient.

“That’s the point of all of this, isn’t it?” Sam observed once Dean had shared his misgivings. “To find the truth?”

“Is there even any truth to find?” Dean returned. “We still have to consider the possibility Erica is making all of this up to distract us.”

“Then how do you explain the key? She couldn’t create one out of thin air!”

“I don’t know!” Dean slapped his palm against the table in frustration.

Taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to calm down. It wasn’t Sam’s fault, he reminded himself. His brother’s instinct to root out the truth of Erica’s connection to the Men of Letters was equally as strong as his own instinct to shove her out the door on her ass. It was part of who they were. It was why they worked together so well—to balance each other. But he had to find some way to make his brother understand this feeling of _wrongness_ deep in his gut was more than just distrust.

“I don’t know how she’s done it,” Dean tried again, keeping his voice steady as he locked eyes with his brother, hoping Sam could sense his urgency. “I only know she isn’t supposed to be here. She doesn’t _belong_ , Sam. Does that make sense?”

Even before his brother spoke, Dean knew Sam hadn’t understood. Not in the way he had intended at least. “I understand your instincts, Dean. I really do. But—”

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

The brothers found Erica hesitating in the doorway to the library, fresh from a shower and rumpling her damp hair with a towel. At their contrasting declarations, her eyes narrowed in that way Dean didn’t like. How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard?

“No, you’re not,” Sam insisted again before Dean could say anything else. “Come on in. We were just collecting the Men of Letters rosters to see if we can find your dad.”

“Oh.” Easing forward on still-hesitant feet to join the brothers, Erica ran a hand across the open pages of the book Sam had been scanning, a vee deepening between her brows. “This isn’t the most recent record, is it?”

“Well, yeah. The organization was… _disbanded_ …in 1958,” Sam said gingerly. “This is their last roster running from 1956 to then. See here?”—he pointed to two inked numbers, differing from those before them in that they were not accompanied by scrawled signatures— “Our grandfather would have signed here if his initiation hadn’t been interrupted.”

“You won’t find my dad in here, then,” Erica returned with a shake of her head. “Not unless this club of yours recruited seven-year-olds.”

Sam deflated but was not ready for surrender. “What about your grandfather?”

“Possibly,” Erica said with a vague wave of her hand. “I’m not entirely sure, to be honest. He was dead long before I was born and my father didn’t talk about him much. John was his name.”

Dean felt his blood pressure rising. More maybes. More convenient facts. “You aren’t really buying this, are you Sam?”

His brother, however, had already unleashed that single-minded focus that served simultaneously as his best asset and greatest weakness.

“We’ll give ourselves some room for error and start with the 1900s,” he explained, glancing between Erica and the membership ledgers he had pulled from the shelves as he sorted them into three separate piles. “Why don’t you take the aughts and teens since you’re more likely to recognize one of your ancestor’s names? Dean and I will look for your grandfather. I’ll take the twenties and thirties. Dean, how do you feel about the forties and fifties?”

Dean didn’t answer. Sam glanced up to find him already halfway back to the control room, his shoulders hunched and steps heavy with agitation. “Dean? Where are you going?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean returned shortly. “Somewhere I ain’t playing third wheel to your little research project. But you and Erica dig through those records until your eyes cross if that makes you happy.”

Dean knew he should have started looking through the ledgers and gotten this ridiculous investigation over with. The sooner Sam got his answers, the sooner he could send Erica on her way. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, though. To sit at the same table as if she belonged there among the lore books and artifacts of the supernatural world. To play nice as if Erica were just another one of their friends or allies dropping by rather than a suspicious invader of their space and privacy. To pretend it didn’t bother him that his own brother was more interested in helping her investigate than taking his misgivings seriously. Better to retreat while Sam was too preoccupied to follow.

Dean trekked the now-familiar path between the library and his room and slammed the door behind him, throwing himself across his bed with a weary sigh. He waited, certain a knock would sound at his door any second. Sam would want to talk it out. He would want Dean to give Erica a fair chance. He would try to make it sound like Dean was needed to get to the bottom of this investigation. Sam would remind him they were helping Erica and _wasn’t that important?_

Dean didn’t want to hear any of it. He wanted to hear, _“You’re right, Dean. We don’t know enough about this near-total stranger to invite her into the closest thing to a home we’ve ever had. You’re so smart!”_

A stretch, but the sentiment was the same. Not that it mattered. No knock ever came. Dean couldn’t decide if that was better or worse. 

Of course, Sam couldn’t be bothered with his brother’s feelings. He was much too busy accommodating his new best friend. The “friend” they knew nothing about. The friend who was lying through her teeth. Dean couldn’t _prove_ it, but he could _feel_ it deep in his gut.

The proverbial lightbulb flashed above Dean’s head.

Rolling onto his back, he quickly dug his phone out of his pocket. Why had he not thought of this sooner? There was more than one way to skin a cat. And there was more than one way to get information about a person. Sam and Erica could have their dusty archives. He knew someone faster. And when this turned out just the way he thought it would, the ‘I told you so’ would trip off his tongue faster than a Kentucky Derby racehorse.

Scrolling through his contacts, the hunter selected the highlighted name and pressed the phone to his ear as the line began to ring.

“Hey, Charlie! Yeah, it’s Dean. You said to call if I needed anything? No, no monsters this time, I promise. At least not yet. But I do have a question. How good are you at digging up someone’s personal records?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please drop a review and let me know what you think. All feedback is welcome!  
> Until next time!  
> ~Lauren

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for joining me on this ride! It's going to be a blast! Drop a review and let me know your thoughts and opinions-good? bad? OOC? I wanna know ALL the things!
> 
> Lauren


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